


why would someone with a messy heart / deserve a love that lasts?

by amb-roses (overtture)



Series: sunflower (scau) [2]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: : the fic, Boys Kissing, Character Study, Fluff without Plot, Found Family, Gen, Growing Up Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Relationship Study, Time Skips, ask to tag, or: adam's a little in love with all his friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overtture/pseuds/amb-roses
Summary: Adam Cole has kissed Bobby Fish a total of four times, as far as he could recall. He's totaled the same amount with Kyle O'Reilly. Both are experiences in and of themselves. It's become a bit routine at this point but nothing–nothingcompared to Roddy's.





	why would someone with a messy heart / deserve a love that lasts?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adamphobe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamphobe/gifts), [apathyking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathyking/gifts).



> first of all, happy birthdays to the lomls poe and beauseph!!! wrote this for them out of a few drabbles i had around! ive honestly reached the stage where i know there are probably errors but ive reached the end of my rope with this so! as usual ill edit this later, but!! enjoy boys!
> 
> title from the song you by slingshot dakota

Adam had kissed Bobby four times, as far as he could remember. 

The first time, he had been so shocked he could barely recall any detail other than a delayed, all consuming, stunned _holy shit._ He had nearly drowned in a half-frozen lake, a failed skateboard trick, if not for Bobby jumping in to heave both him and Kyle out. Bobby had grabbed him by the front of his shirt as soon as he could breathe properly and yanked him in.

Bobby’s kiss was the scruff of his almost-beard burning away at the lingering chill of frozen lake water, the tight clench of his fists in Adam’s shirt, the rough of chapped lips and clacking teeth, the crinkle of his nose and heavy, panting breaths. It was the affectionate, panicked brush of that same scruff over his cheek as his shirt was released and shaking arms wrapped around him, held him close.

Bobby’s kiss was the thick, sharp kick of alcohol on his tongue years later, that faint earthy-sweet tone and taste he associated with his friend winding and weaving its way around him as he held him in place. It was the solid feeling of being held by familiar hands, on his shoulders, running down his sides and smoothing over his curves with palms rough and calloused by hard work but gentle, so careful, almost tender. 

It was the dead of night and its creeping chill, the way his wide shoulders, close warmth fought off the breeze, chased it away. The way neon reflected over them both, the blazing colors painting across his skin, his face, how bright, how deep his eyes seemed. 

His silhouette and his smile, bright, toothy, heated, chasing away the lingering hollow in his chest with the heated feeling of whiskey in their bellies, of a home waiting for them, of all being right in the world, if just for the night. It was forgiveness and it was fondness, it was the feeling of safety and peace that washed over him as his large arms wrapped around him once again. 

Bobby’s kiss was familiar. It was the angry whirr of the heating working overtime in the background, some romcom Hallmark Christmas movie waxing poetic on the TV, the comforting glow of their, _their,_ apartment, the inside-out warmth of hot chocolate in his belly, milk and honey on his tongue. It was those familiar hands cradling his face, the bump of their noses and the way his own hands came to rest on Bobby's hips, reaching, grasping for stability. The way Bobby seemed to slouch, a slight lean as though he wanted to fall into him.

It was the way even as he pulled back, lips swollen, pupils sharp, his rich hickory brown seemed to lighten into something almost honey in color around it. It was the way Kyle’s Christmas tree lights, a rainbow reflection, tinted his skin in a cascade of light and vibrancy. It was assurance, that sort of gleam in his eye that made something rampant and wild in Adam’s chest settle, if just a little bit.

Bobby's kiss was the firm hold of his hands on Adam’s upper arms, was the taste of sweat, of a long days work in tired muscles. It was the _aha!_ as the lights finally flicker to life, the disinfectant, clean smell of a new apartment. It was the finality of nearly a year long search for something that would fit all of them. It was a pillow, one of the few things they had unpacked for the first night, to the back. It was Kyle's cackling as Bobby hollered and tore off after him across the hardwood, socks making him flail precariously before he landed hard on his ass with a shriek and a curse.

It was _home._

* * *

Kyle's kiss, though, was a whole 'nother experience.

Kyle’s kiss was the tang of sea salt and the swirl of sweet sugary ice cream, sticky between them. It was the grit of sand plastered to their skin no matter how much they brushed down or much water they used, the feeling of the ocean clinging to them from hours of exposure, the way their clothes were beginning to stiffen as they dried. 

It was the way noonlight and twilight highlighted and blazed across the planes and angles of his face, the crooked brush of his nose and the slopes of his silhouette, his cheeks, his jaw, all intimately familiar to him over the years of growing up together. The way he can feel the crinkle of his eyes, the dips of his mouth creasing, the slight hint of a forming sunburn across his cheeks, tips of his ears and shoulders. It was the dizzying reflection and refraction of light in his eyes like maple whiskey, something Adam feels wholly comfortable getting drunk on.

His kiss was the hard press of lips, the sugary-sweet of sweetener and creamer, coffee, maybe Bobby's, maybe his own. He was always a bit of a thief. It was that tinge of sugar and cinnamon, that remnant of frosting, still plastered to his face from their fight with the melting treat before actually drizzling whatever was left over the rolls, half burned. 

It was joy, the kind that seemed too big in both of their chests, throats, laughs that gush from Kyle like a flood that drowns the room, percussive in his ears. It was the way his face scrunched up as Adam laughed with him, the way they clung to each other. The way his sense of peace, the content happiness in the familiar crinkle of his eyes, the curve of his face attempting to restrain the wide wild of his smile, seemed to punch him in the gut with the force of it.

His kiss was sticky cotton-candy and greasy food, was lights against the night, the roaring of children, adults, machinery, was Kyle on his right and Bobby on his left, boxing him in with arms around waists and over shoulders and the feeling of their frozen breaths ghosting the air. It was those same huffs, warming his skin as faces were pressed into shoulders, necks, heads thrown back as they struggled between catching their breaths and choking on the laugher that bubbled up relentlessly.

It was gangly arms draped around him, a face humming into the crook of his neck, legs loose around his hips as he carried a tired Kyle back to their car, dawn just barely beginning to lighten the horizon behind them, was Bobby’s fingers just barely curled into his belt loops as he stumbled behind. 

It was laying Kyle down across the back seats, half smothering him as Adam untangled his fingers from behind his neck, Bobby snoring away in the front seat, was those chill-chapped lips and sleep-heavy eyes, that relaxed twitch of a smile at his shocked wheeze and happy sigh. It was his _thanks Adam,_ the way his name echoed in his ears the whole hour and a half drive home, the way his voice sang in his ears with so _much_ it buzzed under his skin, vibrated in his hands and twitched in his muscles.

His kiss was clammy on his cheek, was his face in Kyle’s neck as emotion slowly untangled its stranglehold on his throat, his lungs, his diaphragm. It was arms around him, fingers threaded through his hair, loosening the bun he’d tied too tight and tucking the few strands he’d missed behind his ears, the softest bob and rock to him as Adam breathed in, out, in, out, in, inhaled _Kyle._ Something rich and gentle, musky with what was probably Roddy’s soap because Kyle liked to steal other’s soaps when he ran out.

It was his name murmured into his cheek, was the soft back and forth brush of his fingertips and thumb pad over his stubbled jaw, under, behind his ears, caressing over his neck in slow, almost casual draws. It was his own breath _hitch-hitch-hitch_ ing, his heart rising to choke in his throat, the beat pounding away at the surface of his skin, reaching for that touch more willing, more open, more than Adam ever would himself.

* * *

But Roddy’s kisses he’s most familiar with.

Roddy, who kissed his cheek every chance he got, the brush of stubble and warmth that still managed to catch a spark of surprise in him each time. Whose favorite activity was kissing him hard and rough before leaning away enough to make Adam chase after him, laughing at his whine and pout before swooping back in to kiss him again, softer, slower, more tender.

Tender and almost longingly, like it was their first kiss all over again, like he was still in the shock of Adam reciprocating his feelings after their rocky history of a half-relationship. Roddy’s kisses were the butterfly breath of his eyelashes on Adam’s face as lips brushed his cheekbones, his forehead, his temple early in the mornings or late into the night when Adam’s nearly completely asleep, too tired to wake up completely but too awake to properly sleep, that perfect limbo of soaking in his lover.

Roddy’s kisses were his fingers, the comfort of his palms and their mounds, the cradle of his head balanced between the familiar callouses of his fingers pads as he tangled them in his hair to anchor them together, always together. The curl of them, the bend of Roddy pinky hooked with his own, the way nails traced down his back teasingly, soothingly, rough or just gentle, memorizing and mindless. It was Roddy’s relentless path, from swollen lips, up his jaw, that raw spot under his ear and just under his jawline that made his whole body light up and electrify. It was that familiar chuckle rumbling in the chest under his palms, the feeling of it exhaled into his skin, dialing that heat up as a hand came up to cradle his neck. A loose hand, a thumb brushing back, forth, back over his pulse-point.

Roddy was the cool shiver of milkshakes cupped in careful grips, the sweat of the cups against their hands and the clasp of them together. It was the silent tilt of the head, the responding kiss, was pinkies entwined as the sun was chased by the twilight and eventual night. It was ice cream sticking to their skin, fumbled wedding rings in an old parking lot while on vacation because he just couldn’t wait for a perfect time that would never come. It was the way Roddy tripped on his flip flops as he ran back to the room, skinning his knee as he sprinted back, half skidding to a stop on one knee with a ring in hand, because _damn it Adam, you couldn’t have waited another hour?_

Roddy’s was chocolate squares still melting on his tongue, the warmth that burned through his veins when he looked at him, from deep in his belly that spread all the way from the tips of his ears to the points of his toes like he’d just had a hot drink. He was the punch of peppermint after that same warmth, a blow that winded him each time, make his knees weak and a sort of lovestruck euphoria overcome him like he was a teen again.

It was a phone suction cupped to the windshield, squinting at small lettering and bickering as the miles stretched beneath their tires and road trip rotation, it was the late night lull of golden streetlights and the way they painted against Roddy’s softest ghost of a smile, the way his eyes darted over to Adam when he noticed he was opening staring. It was the warning brush of pavement markers, forcing his attention away against the natural gravity of the other man, Roddy’s struggles to contain his laughter from the sleeping occupants in the back.

It was the sort of refreshing rush of cool water on hot skin, the sun beating down on him even from the shade, the escape of humidity and resilient heat like a breath of air he had been longing for. The sort of kiss Adam would never admit out loud but would always look back on and blush, because every kiss Roddy shared with him when riled up was a religious-fucking-experience in and of itself, hands down.

Roddy's kiss was rapture, sometimes explosive and all consuming, a flood of everything he never knew he craved, blood-pumping and searing. Sometimes a soft, searching sort of thing, flowers growing through the cracks kind of thing, inside out warmth under his skin that made him feel bigger and smaller at the same time. It was a church, a promise, a prayer he'd drop to his knees for without a thought, because it was _Roddy_.

Roddy's kiss wasn't always something heady with gunpowder and panting with smoke, though. A lot of the time it was a sort of casual lacking that made his breath catch twice as hard. The press of chapped lips on his pulse, the heat of his lover sighing into his skin like a promise, like a home he can relax into, a haven and shelter against– everything. The soft whisper of his lips writing poems and singing the softest of ballads against his palms, carefully rolling his fingers up afterwards as though telling Adam to hold tight to his gifts.

As though he had to even ask.


End file.
